"Do you like him?" Will asked with the raw candour of childhood.
William licked his fingers. "He's a competent commander and good company round the fire at night."
Isabelle noted his evasive answer. She knew William and Richard worked well together and, despite past frictions, their relationship was one of mutual trust and the liking that William declined to admit for John, the Count of Mortain. Isabelle's antipathy for John went much deeper than her husband's. She sometimes thought that if the Devil walked the earth in the shape of a handsome and charming man, he would look and act like the King's brother.
"He is Richard's heir," William added with quiet emphasis. "One day he might be King. He's also our overlord in respect of your mother's Irish lands."
Not wanting to begin an argument within an hour of William's return, Isabelle bit her tongue and busied herself chivvying the maids to empty the bathwater and take away the dirty items of baggage to the laundry. Her Irish lands were a sore point, and one which could only be resolved by putting time and effort into them—time and effort that William was too busy giving to Richard and Normandy.
*** The shutters were closed against the night, but the ceramic oil lamp suspended from the bed canopy had cast enough light to see by and enhance desire and pleasure. Isabelle held William close, savouring the sensation of his hard body upon and within hers: the thunder of his heartbeat, the catch of his breathing, the relaxation of muscles which a moment ago had been bunched with tension. They had been married for eight years; some times were invariably better than others, and this occasion, fed by a season's built-up appetite, was one of them.
"Is that proof enough for you?" William gasped against her throat.
Isabelle arched her neck. "It is certainly proof," she replied in a sultry murmur, "but whether it is enough…"
"Is that a challenge?"
"And if I said yes?"
He nuzzled her throat. "I can still race up a siege ladder and
have the stamina remaining for a long campaign."
Isabelle answered the sally with soft laughter. "Maybe so," she said, enjoying the banter, "but in me you have met your match."
He rolled to his side, pulling her with him. "Ah, Isabelle," he said tenderly, and drew his hand through her thick tawny hair. "I thank God for it every day."
"So do I…and that's why I worry for you."
"Now that I'm getting older?" His tone was still light but Isabelle didn't miss the sardonic nuance.
"Your age has nothing to do with it." She gave him a nudge. "Were you three score and ten, I suspect you'd still be leading your men from the front rather than staying back to command."
"I know what I'm about. As in all things there's much to be said for experience." He nibbled the inside of her wrist. "Truly, I am not in search of glory these days."
Isabelle wasn't so sure, but let the matter drop. She feared that King Richard involved William in too many scrapes, but saying so was pointless and would only create a vicious circle compounded of her worry and his exasperation. It did not mean, however, that she was finished with skirmishing on other matters close to her heart. "Did you speak of Ireland to Richard and John?" she asked.
"Yes," he said diffidently, "I mentioned it."
"And?"
He sighed. "The King agreed in principle to give me leave to go, but for the moment he needs me to command in Normandy."
"And what did John say?"
"Very little."
"He would," she said tartly. "He's our overlord in Ireland and he doesn't want us stirring our spoon in his cauldron lest we dredge up things that he doesn't want us to see."
When he didn't reply, Isabelle raised herself up on her elbow
to look at him. "You think I am being foolish about John, don't you?"
"No, my love, I don't. A trifle zealous in your dislike, I admit, but you are right. John doesn't want us interfering in Ireland, but it's a moot point anyway because I cannot spare the time to go."
Isabelle exhaled impatiently. "We have been wed as long as Richard has been a king, yet not once have we crossed the sea to Leinster. When will you be able to spare the time?"
"As soon as it is right on all counts, I promise."
With an effort, Isabelle restrained herself. She didn't want to quarrel on his first night home. The privacy of their bed might be the place, but it wasn't the time. She suspected that William was as reluctant to visit Ireland as Richard and John were to see him go. She had long realised that while the tranquillity of retreats such as Caversham in England or this keep at Longueville were necessities to his well-being, he was uncomfortable when away from the hub of the court for too long. He had dwelt in its glow for most of his life, so that leaving it for the distant periphery of Ireland would be an almighty wrench. Then there was the sea crossing. He abhorred travelling by ship and the passage to Ireland was no calm day's sail. Still, she intended holding him to his word. He was always insisting that it was by her auspices he held the land and only in trust for their children. Let him put his actions on the same level as the courtesy of his words and give them substance.